


Bad-Ass-Mother-F**ker

by chibifanwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibifanwriter/pseuds/chibifanwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of people forget Stiles is the Sherriff’s son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad-Ass-Mother-F**ker

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing a fic with BAMF!Stiles and, er, this is what happened. 
> 
> I wrote this in about half an hour, and it's un-betaed, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. If I did, there would be a lot more slash in it.

A lot of people forget Stiles is the Sherriff’s son. They don’t seem to understand what that entails. He’s no Allison, can’t shoot an arrow save his life, would probably (almost had) kill his best friend with a crossbow.

But give him a gun and he can show you how to strip and re-assemble it in thirty seconds flat. He can shoot a stationary target’s bull’s eye every time and a moving target’s seventy-five percent of the time.

He has experience with all the guns in the Sherriff’s department’s arsenal, and all the ones in his dad’s personal stash. He’s been around guns all his life, he knows them and he respects them. He’s absorbed everything his dad every taught him about them and more that he’s gotten from the gun experts the Sherriff’s department has brought in.

Which is why he has no hesitation in reaching for Chris Argent’s dropped gun.

The Alpha pack had struck just like they’d thought they would; hard, fast and brutal after weeks of play, of trying to wear the Pack down. Derek barely had time to call the Argents for help before the Alphas had fucking swarmed.

The truce with the Argents had held—Chris and Allison had come into the subway hideout with guns blazing and slinging arrows like they were out of style. Except the Alphas had immediately turned on the Argents, sending Chris flying through the air and his gun skittering against the floor.

Stiles had been pushed down, ordered not to get into trouble, and—apart from a gash on his thigh from one of the Alphas before a roaring Derek had leapt on him—the Alpha pack has ignored him.

Their mistake.

He scoops up the gun, notes the safety is still off, raises it, aims and blows the head off the Alpha about to claw Scott in the back. He pivots, takes out the Alpha who has Boyd pinned down, turns and shoots out the knee of the Alpha rushing to disarm him.

Chris shouts his name and Stiles hears the distinct sound of metal skidding across concrete. He bends, grabs the gun, braces himself because despite what the movies would have people believe, it’s fucking hard to shoot two guns at once.

He manages to distract the Alpha trying to make a meal out of Erica’s arm long enough for her to rip out his throat, gets the one advancing on Allison cold in the head before dropping the gun that’s run out of bullets and shifting to his preferred stance, smoothly taking out Alphas Bitch and Whiny with a one-two sweep that makes his inner Stiles go _whoop-whoop!_

He dimly notes that Chris has stepped up beside him, that he’s handling a beautiful rifle that Stiles wants but let’s nothing distract him, counting down the bullets and taking the magazine Chris hands him when he runs out.

In the end, three-quarters of the Alpha pack is decimated, the other quarter has retreated and everyone’s staring at Stiles like he’s grown three heads.

Stiles ignores them to give the gun still in his hand a quick look over, before handing it to Chris. As if that’s a signal, Scott’s bounding over, pulling Allison in tow because he’s an idiot who doesn’t care that his (ex)girlfriend’s slightly homicidal father who’s still armed and still doesn’t like him is right here.

He’s saying something, Stiles isn’t sure what; he can’t hear much over the roar in his own ears, the pounding of his heart and the panting of his breath. The pack is crowding close, he can sense them, but he only has eyes for Derek, who’s half drenched in blood and standing by the car, arms crossed and red eyes piercing Stiles’ own.

Slowly, the Alpha nods.

And the next time there’s an attack on the pack, Stiles takes out his gun, the one Chris had given him, along with his own stash of wolfsbane bullets, his packet of mountain ash and his belief, and steps into the fray.


End file.
